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Last Man Standing
Wendy Rosnau
Lucky Masado was already heir to one throne–but he'd had another thrust upon him. And he was in between those two worlds when into his life walked Elena Tandi. The spirited beauty was full of questions, and she was not going to like his answers.Elena knew that Lucky Masado could shed light on who her family really was. But she could not have anticipated the passion she would have for him, a street soldier who was about to embark on a long-anticipated battle. When it was over, there would be only one man standing. Would it be Lucky? And would she be the woman by his side?
His glass had been refilled for the third time when he saw her.
She looked left, then right. When their eyes locked, Lucky watched her slip through the crowd, her shiny black hair moving around her slender shoulders.
She wasn’t dressed to be noticed, but that didn’t stop the men from taking a second look. She had an angel’s face, with a walk that would make a man follow her to hell and back on his knees. He’d been around plenty of beautiful women over the years, but this woman had everything. Too much of everything, he decided, as his gaze focused on her V-neck sweater and the way it was doing a damn fine job of framing her assets.
It occurred to him as he glanced around the room that every guy in the place was anticipating Elena strutting down the catwalk, that she was assumed to be a dancer looking for a job.
Only they both knew she wasn’t there to work the crowd. She was there to work him.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another month of the most exciting romantic reading around, courtesy of Silhouette Intimate Moments. Starting things off with a bang, we have To Love a Thief by ultrapopular Merline Lovelace. This newest CODE NAME: DANGER title takes you back into the supersecret world of the Omega Agency for a dangerous liaison you won’t soon forget.
For military romance, Catherine Mann’s WINGMEN WARRIORS are the ones to turn to. These uniformed heroes and heroines are irresistible, and once you join Darcy Renshaw and Max Keagan for a few Private Maneuvers, you won’t even be trying to resist, anyway. Wendy Rosnau continues her unflashed miniseries THE BROTHERHOOD in Last Man Standing, while Sharon Mignerey’s couple find themselves In Too Deep. Finally, welcome two authors who are new to the line but not to readers. Kristen Robinette makes an unforgettable entrance with In the Arms of a Stranger, and Ana Leigh offers a matchup between The Law and Lady Justice.
I hope you enjoy all six of these terrific novels, and that you’ll come back next month for more of the most electrifying romantic reading around.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Editor
Last Man Standing
Wendy Rosnau
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
WENDY ROSNAU
resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. She divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and writing romantic suspense.
Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times Top Pick. She received the Midwest Fiction Writers 2001 Rising Star Award.
Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com.
To my husband, Jerry,
who continues to stand beside me.
I love you….
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Each time Lucky Masado entered the gates of Dante Armanno, he found one more reason not to like Vito Tandi’s estate. Today’s niggle was security.
There were nine state-of-the-art cameras positioned strategically on the grounds, two twelve-foot electronic iron gates, eight hungry-looking Rottweilers on the prowl and four experienced soldatos shouldering AR-70s on the rooftop.
Still, he’d been inside the house twice without anyone knowing, which meant any day of the week he could play gut-and-run on Vito Tandi and walk away. But that’s not what Lucky wanted from the old capo. Vito would die soon enough without anyone cutting his jugular. If he lasted the year, it would be a miracle.
The armed guard at the gate was expecting Lucky and flagged him through. It was late, after nine, and he drove his red Ferrari—the only extravagant toy he owned—up the paved half-mile driveway lined with one-hundred-year-old oak trees dressed in winter white.
Yesterday, two days after Thanksgiving, the Midwest had gotten ten inches of snow. With temperatures tickling twenty degrees, it was logical to assume that winter had arrived in Chicago.
Lucky sped through the second set of open gates—another guard giving him a nod—then rounded the circular inlaid courtyard where the statue of Armanno, Sicily’s legendary hero, stood in a snowdrift.
Accustomed to the routine that had been set a few days ago, he climbed out of the car, tossed his keys to a man named Finch and headed for the keystone archway. He was still required to empty his pockets at the front door. Lucky pulled out his weapons. Three knives—a Hibben, four-inch stiletto and a Haug with a curved blade able to tear a man to shreds in a matter of seconds—were laid out on a marble slab inside the archway. Next came the guns: two skeleton-grip 9-mm Berettas, a Smith & Wesson .22 and the lupara that rode inside the lining of his jacket.
His pockets empty, Lucky entered the house and followed Vito’s bodyguard down a hallway lit by shadow boxes filled with everything from sixteenth-century swords to Civil War rifles. Vito’s bodyguard was a foot taller than Lucky, which put him over seven feet. Dressed in black pants and a black sweater, the only hint that Benito Palone lived for more than protecting the life of a dying mob boss was the diamond earring he wore and the tattoo of a woman’s backside burned into his forearm.
Lucky had noticed the earring days ago. Now as Benito reached to open the study door, he offered Lucky a glimpse of his tattoo, two inches above his wrist.
Because Lucky knew Palone’s intent was to follow him inside, he turned before the big man had a chance to duck his head and negotiate the door’s six-nine opening. Then, in a voice much quieter than one would expect for a man reported to be the most aggressive street soldier in Chicago, he said, “Not this time, Palone. Today, I’m a solo act with your boss.”
The guard’s green eyes narrowed. He looked over Lucky’s head to where the ailing mobster sat behind an eight-foot-long oak desk. “What do you say, Mr. Tandi? He has no weapons, but—”
“It’s all right, Benito,” Vito’s gravelly voice rumbled. “If Frank Masado’s son was going to kill me, I expect I would be dead by now. Isn’t that right, Nine-Lives Lucky?”
Lucky refused to be baited by the use of his childhood nickname. Since he had established himself in the organization years ago, his nickname had been shortened. Of course there were those who still used his given name of Tomas—mostly people outside the famiglia.
“You wanted to see me.” Lucky eyed the bulky body behind the desk. Vito was dressed in a black smoking jacket with red satin lapels. He was sixty-three years old and bald, but for a graying tuft that rimmed the back of his head and tickled his ears. He was average in height, well above average in weight and would be dead within the year of throat cancer.
“My lawyer made the changes you requested in my will. The papers were delivered this afternoon. They’re ready to be signed.”
Two days ago Lucky had agreed to become Vito Tandi’s son on paper—the heir of Dante Armanno. That is, if certain sections of the will were amended to his specifications.
CEO of Vito’s fortune had never made Lucky’s list of dream jobs. But being born Sicilian and the son of a syndicate player hadn’t been something he could control. Liking who and what you were wasn’t a requirement for doing the job you were trained to do, his father had always told him. Not when he was twenty, and not now at thirty-one.
Vito raised his hand and motioned for Lucky to take a seat in the red velvet chair in front of his desk. Then, with a gratuitous wave, he shooed away his guard. “Benito, tell Summ to bring us something to drink. I believe there will be cause to celebrate. Tell her we’d like—”
“Scotch,” Lucky suggested, shedding his brown leather jacket. He dropped it beside the chair before taking a seat.
“It looks like we need to restock the wine cellar, Benito. I’ve neglected it this past year, and I imagine it’s in sorry shape.” Vito studied Lucky for a moment and finally said, “Your preferences?”
“Macallan, and some good wine.”
“Yes, I’m a wine man myself. Bardolino and soave.” His gaze went back to his bodyguard. “There you have it, Benito. Make arrangements to restock the cellar. And instruct Summ to bring us the best Scotch we have in the house.”
When the door closed, Vito reached for a fat Italian cigar in a carved wooden box. “Cigar?”
Lucky shook his head. “Just the Scotch.”
“The other day when I suggested you move into the estate as soon as possible, I sensed some reluctance. I understand you still live in your father’s old house. After tonight, I suspect, your enemies will double. This would be the safest place for you, huh?”
Lucky said nothing. He wasn’t going to sell the house in town. He and Joey had already discussed what they would do with it, if and when he moved out.
“It’s no secret that money and power is not what drives you,” Vito continued. “If it was, you would have moved out of your old neighborhood long ago. So what will it take to convince you to accept my generosity and live with me at Dante Armanno?”
Never short on words when he had something to say, Lucky said, “An overhaul on security, for starters, and a private meeting with each of your guards.”
Vito’s bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead. “My security expenditures are close to a million a year. Are you suggesting that’s not enough?”
“There are things money can’t buy. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
His candid reference to Vito’s failing health and his irreversible fate was duly noted with a sour grunt of displeasure.
“Your house has thirty-eight rooms, nine entrances and 116 windows,” Lucky continued. “Twenty-one of those windows are in need of repairs. You also have a state-of-the-art underground tunnel. By the way, the light is out in the hidden passageway leading to your bedroom. Unless someone has replaced it since this morning.”
“You’ve been busy. Am I to assume no tour will be necessary once you move in?”
“You can assume whatever you want, old man.”
An unexpected rusty chuckle erupted from Vito. Rubbing his swollen hands together, he said, “This is better than I expected. Yes, very good.” He waved his hand again. “Make any changes you feel necessary. Fire and hire. Do whatever it takes to make my home your home.”
Lucky adjusted himself in the chair, wishing the housekeeper would hurry up with the Scotch. His back hurt like a son of a bitch, and lately it was taking a lot more sauce to dull the pain.
“It’s no secret that Carlo Talupa named Moody Trafano as my heir.”
Lucky nodded. “My men tell me he’s been smiling for weeks. He’s also become a regular at the Shedd in anticipation of his takeover.”
“Such a shame for Carlo to die so tragically.” Vito’s words didn’t match his casual shrug. “His unfortunate death puts Moody Trafano out in the cold and now allows me to name my own heir.”
There was still an ongoing investigation into the recent murder of Carlo Talupa. He’d been whacked and left in the back seat of a junked car at a salvage garage. He’d been missing for four days before he’d been found.
The police had no suspects, but Lucky didn’t need to sift through Carlo’s enemy list to know who had fired six bullets into the Chicago mob boss’s head.
“You know Moody Trafano is a man without honor. A greedy moron.” Vito’s lips curled. “Weeks ago I explained this to Carlo, but he wasn’t interested in my measure of his choice. I can only guess that he was honoring some deal he made with Vinnie.”
Moody Trafano was Vincent D’Lano’s bastard son. They were both slippery snakes looking for easy money and a paved road to the top of the syndicate ladder.
“If Carlo was alive, we would not be having this discussion,” Vito conceded. “Moody would be still celebrating his elevated position.”
“Then we can thank fate,” Lucky said blandly, “for Carlo’s timely death.”
Vito puffed on his cigar and the room turned blue with smoke. “Fate. It is a hard word to define, huh?”
Lucky shrugged off the question.
“My father was born in Palermo. When he settled in Detroit, he hoped life would be good, but it was hard for him. I remember going to bed night after night hungry, rubbing my belly. I vowed when I got older and could work, never to be hungry again. I worked two jobs at age fourteen. Sixteen-hour days on the docks bought me food and eventually a home of my own. Respect. Years later I came here and bought the steel mill. I never went hungry after that, and neither did the men I recruited from the waterfront. Hungry men. Good men down on their luck. The harder they worked, the more I fed them. The loyalty of hardworking men…it is a winning combination, huh?”
Lucky agreed, but again said nothing.
“I learned all of my men’s names and the names of their wives and children. I sent groceries to their homes. Bought gifts for their children at Christmas. I no longer visit the mill, but I still know my men by name. I still send food and gifts to their families. I have heard that you also believe in rewarding loyalty this way. That your men follow you out of love, as well as fear. A true mafioso knows that respect and honor is his responsibility, not his choice.
“Some say you enjoy watching a man bleed, Lucky. And it is true you honor the old ways and do what many have no stomach to do. But you are about more than spilling blood. You are feared because you know what it means to be a un’ uomo d’onore. A man of honor. Your loyalty to your brother and Jackson Ward at age fifteen will never be forgotten.”
“I did not know the price I would pay that night, old man. I assure you, I wasn’t thinking about the old ways in that alley. I went only to—”
“Protect your brother and friend from being killed by the local cricca,” Vito finished. “Yes, I know the story. Three against a gang of ten, wasn’t it?” One thick finger pointed to a scar half-hidden on Lucky’s neck by his collar-length black hair. “I am told that the scar on your back stretches four feet in length.”
“An exaggeration,” Lucky disputed, knowing for a fact that the scar fell short by only two inches.
“The story claims they held you down and cut you while your brother and friend were made to watch. Is it true that you shot three of the cricca after the fact, or is that an exaggeration, too?”
That part wasn’t an exaggeration. Lucky, however, wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d caused three mothers to grieve and wail at their sons’ funerals. Still, he had done what he had to do to save his brother and best friend.
The cricca thought they had killed him. Lucky had believed it, too. In what he thought were his last seconds on earth, he’d made one last stand to give Joey and Jackson a chance to survive.
He leaned back and slid his hand into the waistband of his jeans; inside his shorts, past his scarred belly to palm the second .22 he carried—the one responsible for saving all their lives that night in the alley. The gun that now permanently rode snug against him as comfortably as his wallet did in his back pocket.
